Endless Night Part 27

"He's my dad. What do you think we are, perverts?"

Now, she laughed. "I didn't mean it that way, and you know it. I mean, if he was some guy your own age, and not related to you, and he asked you out."

"Dad doesn't allow me to go out."

"But if he did."

"Would I go out with a guy who looks like that?"

"Yeah."

"Well, sure. Except it'd be weird going on a date with a guy who's the spitting image of my dad. Weird going on any date, for that matter. But what do you think? Would you go out with a guy like him?"

"You better believe it."

Jody smiled over Miles's shoulder. "Hear that, Dad?" Miles jerked her head around. After a glance at the empty doorway, she scowled at Jody. Her scowl trembled, then cracked into a grin.

"Gotcha," Jody said.

"I oughta smack you."

"Anyway, can we get out of here, now?" She stood up and slipped her bare right foot into her moccasin. "I don't want to sit around all night in my undies."

"Let's go." Miles went ahead of her. And looked both ways before stepping into the corridor.

Jody felt her stomach plunge.

What if they're here!

The whole bunch from last night!

Don't be ridiculous, she told herself.

Miles gestured for her to come ahead, then led the way, Jody giving directions to the bedroom. After a quick check of the room, she posted herself at the door.

Jody put on a pair of tan shorts and white socks. She was just stepping into her moccasins again when Dad called, "Jody? Miles?"

"Down here," Miles called. "Did we get the shooter?"

"Found the house he fired from. He was long gone. Left behind a firebomb, but our boys got to it with a couple minutes to spare."

Miles sidestepped into Jody's room. Moments later, Dad came in. He looked angry, grim. "A crime scene unit's on the way up there now. They've got a couple of bodies to deal with. The owners of the house, apparently. I want to run up there and have a look for myself."

"I'll look after Jody till you get back," Miles said.

"Appreciate it." To Jody, he said, "How you doing, hon?"

"Not bad. Officer Miles patched me all up. The guy who shot at me, he killed people up on the hillside?"

"It sure looks that way. Don't worry about anything, though. n.o.body can get to you."

"I'm not worried about that."

"Just stay inside and keep away from windows."

"I'll see to it, sir," Miles said.

He gave her a thumbs up, winked at Jody, said, "I'll try not to be gone long," and left.

Part Four.

Simon Says.

Chapter Nineteen.

h.e.l.lo again. Here I am, settled in a rather scabby motel, my hideout till I can get a few things taken care of. It's still Sat.u.r.day, by the way.

Okay, where to start?

Got it. Here goes ...

We'll start with the refrigerator.

It was a big white Amana with a major collection of cutesy magnets stuck to its door. The magnets mostly showed imitation food: a banana, a slice of watermelon, a taco, a grilled cheese sandwich, that sort of c.r.a.p. Benedict's mouth was open, so I shoved the grilled cheese sandwich in it.

A little late for his last meal, huh? Couldn't have been very tasty, anyhow. It was made out of foam rubber and plastic, and had this magnet glued to the back.

While I worked on unloading the refrigerator, I helped myself to another bottle of Beck's and some snacks. Crackers, salami, and cheese.

Tossed most of the stuff into cupboards. Anything that might rot and stink ended up in the freezer compartment or down the disposal. Once the shelves were empty, I pulled them out and stuck them out of sight in the broom closet.

Benedict went into the refrigerator upside-down with his head shoved sideways and most of his weight on the backs of his shoulders. That's the best way to put people in refrigerators. You want their center of gravity to be low, so they're not as likely to topple and fall out the door. It works better if you cut off the head first. That way, the shoulders fit nice and snug against the bottom comer. But I didn't want to mess with it, so I left his head on. Once he was arranged in a way that looked fairly st.u.r.dy, I shut the door. Then I shook the whole refrigerator a few times and stepped back. The door stayed shut.

With that ch.o.r.e done, I hurried back into the bedroom. My blue denim skirt and lovely yellow blouse were ruined with blood. I tossed them on the floor. In the bathroom, I washed the blood off my skin. Then I found a faded blue sundress that was sleeveless and had a zipper up the back. Had a lousy time with the zipper, but finally got it up.

I picked up Hillary's hair and put it on, adjusted it in the mirror, and decided that I looked utterly ravis.h.i.+ng. Then I gathered my purse and headed for Benedict's Jaguar.

I turned heads.

It was a convertible, of course. And there I sat behind its wheel, naked-armed, gorgeous, my thick brown hair flowing in the wind. (Hillary's scalp made my head itch, but it was sticky so it clung fairly well. A few times, when an odd gust of wind got the upper hand, I needed to clap a hand down to stop the hair from flying off. Mostly, though, it worked fine.) Within about a mile of the Weston house, I drove past three cop cars: two black and whites, and one "unmarked" maroon job with a couple of plainclothes guys inside. I figured they were in the neighborhood looking for me.

Well, they sure saw me, all right.

Of the six cops, five were men and one was a gal. They each gave me a good, long look. I had a real urge to smile and wave, or blow them some kisses. But I pointedly ignored them, instead, figuring that's how Hillary would've behaved, seeing as how she was probably a stuck-up rich b.i.t.c.h who considered it beneath her dignity to be friendly to the peons.

Luckily, I didn't need to grab my hair while any of the cops were admiring me.

The cops weren't the only people who checked me out. Men of all ages, shapes and colors gaped at me as I pa.s.sed. Instantly smitten. Instantly desiring me. One fellow, jogging beside his girlfriend or wife, latched his eyes on me and turned his head to keep watching and stepped off the curb. In the rearview mirror, I got to see him stumble into the street. He flopped and skidded.

I laughed, but then I got pretty excited because his fall made me think about the girl last night-the way she'd slid on the wet gra.s.s, the way she'd looked with her nightie up.

Such a beaut, that girl.

I quit paying attention to how guys were staring at me, and spent a while enjoying thoughts about what I would do with her when I got her.

It was great to think about for a while. But after I was clear of the neighborhood, I had to start wondering what to do next.

I couldn't go home. Home is an apartment in West L.A. where I live alone. For one thing, my keys were gone. I'd left them in Tom's van along with my clothes, and no telling where any of that stuff might be by now. For another thing, some of my neighbors would see me if I went home. My disguise might work fine on strangers, but it wouldn't fool anyone who knows me. And the last big reason for staying away from my apartment was that some of my "friends" might be there waiting for me.

Naturally, they know where I live.

And they had to know that I'd botched the job. The witnesses I was supposed to have killed had gotten away and told on us. I'd have to be punished one way or another.

Maybe with their own brand of "the final solution."

Or maybe not.

One thing was for sure: I'd blown it. The guys couldn't possibly be happy about it.

The best thing I could do, I figured, was to lay low until I could find out how things stood.

That's why I ended up here at the Palm Court. It's the dumpiest motel I could find after cruising up and down La Cienega a couple of times. It looked like a good place for pulling a disappearing act.

The guy in the office looked young enough to be in high school. He had a face so greasy you could fry eggs on it, and a big juicy whitehead at the comer of one nostril. He kept staring at my chest and sliding his tongue across his lips while I filled out the registration card.

I used the name Simone De Soleil and gave an address in Deland, Florida.

I paid with cash, compliments of Hillary and Benedict, for three nights.

The kid had a weird, scratchy voice. "My name's Justin, ma'am. If there's anything I can do for you ..."

"I'll be sure to let you know," I told him.

The plastic tab dangling off the room key was so slippery that I wondered if Justin had been rubbing it on his nose. It showed that I'd been given room eight.

Palm Court has about twenty units, all of them facing the court-which is really nothing but a driveway wide enough for parking s.p.a.ces in front of the rooms. From the looks of things, the place must've had about fifteen vacancies when I checked in.

My room was at the end. I parked in front of it. My Jag can be seen from La Cienega, but just barely. A cop driving by would have to be very lucky to catch a glimpse of it back here.

The room isn't much. But it seems to have everything I need-if you don't count sanitary conditions.

The first thing I did was shut the curtains. Then I turned on the air conditioner. Yes, even a dump like this has air conditioning. It's a window unit that wheezes and clumps and groans ... I'm sure you can hear it on the tape. Hear it?

Anyway, I don't mind the noise because it'll keep anyone from catching what I say in here.

Before getting started, I peeled off my hair. Or Hillary's hair. Whose is it, anyway? The question of owners.h.i.+p becomes rather fuzzy sometimes, doesn't it?

Whatever. It's mine now.

And I was enormously relieved to free my bare head from its moist, tacky grasp. As soon as it was off, I bent over the bathroom sink and washed my pate with soap and water. Not because I felt dirty, mind you; emotionally, the contact with her skin gives me real pleasure. It's the itchiness that drives me up the wall.

While I scrubbed my head, I decided I'd better lay my hands on a wig. A wig, not somebody's scalp. Hillary's hair had done a fine job in helping me escape from her cop-infested neighborhood, but now I would need something better. Besides, hers wasn't likely to improve with age.

Her mop of hair is within easy reach, right now, just in case Justin or someone should happen to come to the door.

I've kept my clothes on, of course. G.o.d knows, I wouldn't want my skin to come into contact with the chair. The nubby brown upholstery looks anything but clean. I haven't even taken off my shoes, though I'd like to except for the fact that they protect me from whatever gobs and tidbits and sharp objects reside in the carpet.

Okay, I think that brings me pretty much up to date.

The room does have a telephone.

It sits on a small table beside the bed. It's pink, and smudged.

I know Tom's number by heart.

I know I've gotta phone him. And the sooner, the better.

It makes me feel sick to think about doing it, though. Not just because I'd need to touch the filthy phone, though the idea of that is fairly disgusting.

I don't want to talk to him.

He left me out to dry.

No, that's not it. That's part of it. He stabbed me in the back. They all did. And that has to be part of it. But the real thing is that I'm scared.

It'd be like phoning a doctor to get the results of a lab test when you just know he's gonna say you've got cancer or AIDS or something.

Tom is gonna tell me I blew it. If he's feeling generous, he'll spare my connections-Lisa and the others.

But you've gotta go, Simon.

All the pleading in the world won't change a thing. It won't matter that we've been buddies forever. Nothing will matter except that I let the witnesses get away from me, and they told.

I can't make that call. Not right now, anyway.

Fact is, I don't feel like doing anything. I want to just sit here and talk and nothing else.

Maybe I can use the tapes for leverage.

I already told who all the members are, so that's taken care of. Now let's give out some real goodies, some really incriminating stuff that the cops can sink their teeth into if they ever get hold of these tapes.